Elephant In the Room
by ThatClutzsarahh
Summary: They can't pretend it's not there any longer.


**Spoilers: Season 3.**

**Summary: It's the aftermath of everything that's happened. Peter hates himself so much and Olivia doesn't want to remember him only in her mind anymore.**

**Warnings: M for a reason.**

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He's not sure where he stands in her mind, standing in her kitchen so he places his hands in his pockets. He's full of pride so he doesn't let his eyes fall to the floor. Instead, they focus on a spot on the wall far behind her head. He leans against her counter. She leans against the table, her eyes completely unreadable.

There is an elephant in the room. It is not pink or purple nor fuzzy or soft. It is gray and large, holding up the roof with it's back as it stares down on the odd couple. It's feet stand on the sturdy foundation they built for two years together. It takes up most of the room and has no intention of moving. They pretend that they don't see. They don't believe it, either. But it's there, waiting, watching, large and silent. It waits for honesty. It leaves large cracks in the walls as it grows with each passing second of silence. It is large and gray. It waits.

It's not like she could have taken out a map and drawn a line to him. She could not place her soft finger pads on a map and counted the finger lengths that were to him. She could not calculate the hours it would take or the miles she could go to see him. There was no plane to get her to him, not from where she was. There was no train or car or jet. Not even her dreams could get her there. She was an infinite amount of space from him. There was no unit of measure to pinpoint how far away. She was next to him the whole time, but within a whole other bio-dome, a whole other unit of mass. She traveled between universes for him and was left behind. She had traveled so far for him, but was left behind. He didn't know, there was no way he could know. And she wasn't able to tell him it was all right.

And he hates himself. He hates himself for laying hands on a woman that was Olivia, but not Olivia. Two completely different people and he couldn't tell the difference. He can't forgive himself. He'll never forgive himself. Here he stands in her kitchen, staring away from her because he cannot look at her. He cannot bear to see why he couldn't tell the differences between them. He's disgusted with himself because he touched her, the other. He was stupid, he should have known. He hates himself so deeply. He has to go. He hurt her to bad. There is nothing left for him here, it will never be the same for them because he messed it up. He pulls his hands from his pockets and yanks his hair through his hands.

"How," he whispers angrily, looking at the ceiling, "I-" He can't finish because he doesn't know what to say. What words are good at this time? He turns away and stares out over the sink to the dark street and the single illuminating streetlight.

"Peter," she starts and she sees his tense at the sound of his name. In her mind she processes that he's hurting and she recoils. How can it already be her fault?

"Don't," Peter begins, as if he can read her mind, "Don't blame yourself."

She opens her mouth to say something but shuts it. What words are appropriate at this time? She feels like a woman who's been caught cheating. But cheating is a very wrong word to use here. The only one being cheated is her, because she doesn't understand. He spins back around to face her and his eyes are unreadable. She doesn't know what to say to him.

"How," he begins again, choking lightly in his throat, "How can you not hate me?"

"I can't hate you Peter," she says slowly, clearly. She opens her mouth to tell him why but he cuts her off.

"I left you there. I-fuck," he chokes and coughs, trying the words again, closing his eyes and opening them. "I left you there, without a second glance. I never questioned it. Nothing. And I-"

"You didn't leave me there," Olivia tries but he won't have it.

"How can you look at me and tell me everything is going to be okay?" he almost shouts.

"I can't tell you everything is going to be okay," she says stepping close to him, "Because everything is never going to be okay, not ever. You and I Peter, we're too broken to fix this now. You can't hate yourself. If you hate anyone, let yourself hate me-"

"Olivia, no," he says, trying to step away from her. To him she's fragile, breakable. He can't handle her so close to him. She's like an object behind glass that was once his but no longer his. It vaguely reminds him of his first car. Her body is so familiar, but so different. Strange.

"I'm not going to let you run," she says firmly, "Not again. You think I'm breakable, I can see it. But you can't go, not again. I can't let you-"

"Olivia stop," he says, his voice almost a plea. There are tears in her eyes and they are already on his face. How can it be possible to hate himself so much?

"Shut up Peter," she snaps at him and he smiles a ghost of a smile at her, "I won't let you go. I won't let you leave, never again. I know it's selfish. I know that she was from where you were from she was so different than me, but I want you. I want to keep you to myself. So don't try to leave me anymore Peter, because then I'll be broken and it will be your fault."

She's a breath away from his face and the threat frightens her, but not to the extent it frightens him at. He feels her words, literally feels them from the inside out. Like he could feel her skin the words are weights in his hands, in his mind. He doesn't want to feel that hurt. He doesn't want to know he's the cause for her injury. She doesn't hate him now.

"Olivia," he whispers out, stroking her cheek in his hand. She smiles at him and rubs against his palm, like a purring cat. And strangely it feels right. He doesn't feel like he's being twisted away. She waits for him and it's so foreign yet so right. God it feels right. He brings his other hand up to her face cups her other cheek. So right…

And he feels a tear fall and-

"Peter," she whispers to him, breathing against his lips. She closes the space with a feather light kiss that is uniquely hers. It's like a butterfly's wing, delicate and beautiful against his face as it touches him. But it's like a thirst quenching drink that he wants so much of. This was right. This kiss was right. And so he kisses back, lacing his fingers in her hair and gluing her to his face because for now, her lips cease his tears.

Her fingers are touching his cheek, lightly and beautifully. One of his hands holds her to the front of him as she kisses him. She waits for him to beg for an entrance, and grants it gracefully when he does. She kisses him with all her delicate passion, controlling herself because he has to control himself. But he's over thinking things. She tugs at his hair and he nips her lip in response, his fingers tightening on her waist. They danced with the hem of her shirt, tucked into black slacks that she wears. They move in feather light precision, bunching the material up and un-tucking it. She moves her hands down his throat and a cross his chest, searching for his heartbeat. She pauses her hands over his heart and smiles to herself. He searches for the pulse in her neck. But he stops. It's abrupt and cruel and he pulls his hands away from her. He's receding backwards, like a tumor that grows again.

"No, Peter, no," she whispers in a desperate plea, "Don't leave me, I need you. I want you."

He rests his head in the space between her neck and shoulder. Her voice is raw and desperate. There is no whiskey to fool it or mask an invisible desire. She wants this more than anything and she is begging him. Why is he so hesitant?

He clings to her waist for dear life, like she if the life line that holds him up. For now she is. He needs to climb the rope and save himself from drowning in self-hate, self-loathing. She's patient and silent and it looks like she's waiting for him. But inside her mind she's cracking, breaking. All she wants is for him to touch her, to make her feel real. She needs to show him that she is her.

"Please Peter," she begs him her fingers feeling over his pulse, feeling the rhythm. His fingers rub circles on her skin. "If you're going to leave," she whispers, her voice close to cracking, "Then go now."

He pulls his face back and stares at her. She's almost leaking tears and it's his fault. He wants to take the pain away from her so badly, its hurting him, too. But those words cause him to become scared and he kisses her fiercely right then and there, afraid that he will leave her and that he doesn't want to. His grip is harsh on her hipbones and she wrinkles his shirt in her hands, fisting him to be close to her. His tears wash her cheeks and she welcomes the stain. They stand in the kitchen like this for a while until he begins to push her toward the bedroom. He makes it down the hallway and stops abruptly, pulling away and leaning against the wall.

"Fuck," he says, balling his fist and placing it against his head. Olivia feels cold and he's at war with himself. He shouldn't know where her bedroom is because he hasn't had her before.

"Peter-"

"I slept with her Olivia," he says bluntly. He watches as she flinches and he takes it as a good sign, maybe this way she'll realize the monster he is. "I slept with her Olivia, in your bed, in your house. God I-" he stalls, looking at the blank walls, "Tell me you don't hate me now, sweetheart, tell me that everything isn't all wrong now-"

Olivia's eyes darken and she stares at him. She's had enough of his game.

"I hate you," she whispers and he looks up with wide eyes. It was a stinging blow that he didn't expect to hear. "I hate you so much Peter. I hate you because you slept with her when you were supposed to be with me. I hate you because you had her and not me. So I hate you Peter. I hate you to the point where I can't-"

His lips draw over hers and he enters her mouth without any permission. He doesn't want to hear it anymore. He thought he wanted to hear it, but he doesn't and he'll do anything to silence her. She tugs him toward her bedroom now, walking through the open door and letting him lay her down on the bed as he spreads over her in a blanketed fashion.

Her fingers were at his shirts buttons, sliding them through the slits and releasing them. Her fingers pads are soft and delicate, light brushings over his muscles. He works her shirt off her as she grabs his belt delicately, releasing it and softly throwing it from the bed. He is rough against her, his hands working roughly as she is soft and delicate against him. He removes her slacks as she removes his jeans and she shifts underneath him. She is so different, she isn't demanding and rough, she is demanding and delicate and he likes her better than-

She feels the tears hit her chest as he buries his face between her breasts. The tears are warm and wet and she wants to cry. He compares everything with the other her and she hates him for doing so. But for now she won't let him see this in her and she encourages his touches by tugging at his hair, running her fingers down his back and arching for him. She begs him, begs him, to touch her. As he reaches the top of her panties, the tears stop leaving trails and he returns to her lips and kisses them before pulling away from her and running his fingers under the fabric.

"You are so beautiful Olivia," he whispers, his eyes looking into hers, "So beautiful."

Her gasp was her only reply as she moved her fingers the waistband of his boxers, toying with the elastic on them as she circled her thumbs over his hipbones. He pushed them forward into her as she parted her legs, ready for him. Her fingers slipped under the band and pushed them away, down his legs until he kicks them away. He doesn't take a chance to breathe because he knows he'll stop if he does. Right now he wants to feels everything about her and he doesn't want to think. Thinking leads to crying.

He remembers, her, the other her, so different. She was so dominating, demanding and rough. Olivia, the Olivia, his Olivia was not so. She was demanding, but gentle. She let him pick the pace, him be on top, him to start. So in ways she was different, much different. Her hands grab him and he gasped aloud, his eyes opening to look at her face, her beautiful face through the blurry vision that clouded her. Her fingers crawled down the furry patch of hair near his navel and he smiled at her, a smile through the teas that she welcomed. She kissed him fully then, wrapping her legs around his waist and waiting for him. He moves slowly and fills her, hearing her gasp and still underneath him. He likes this part, the look on her face as she realizes just how much bigger he is than her.

She is different than her and he likes it, she meets him for every stride and when he hits the spot she yells his name and arches forward into him, his fingers curling up against her bareback. He likes the way she arches into him, her throat bare and exposed for him to kiss and he does so, swiping his teeth across her pulse gently. And as he does so, he rotates his hips and hits the spot, again.

"Like that Peter," she gasps through pants, clinging to his shoulders, "Just like that."

She tips her head back against the pillow as Peter hits the spot again and again. She's tightening around him and he's using every ounce of control to not lose himself just yet. He feels her body stiffen and she opens her mouth to scream, but he covers hers at the right second, kissing away his name as she comes around him, squeezing him harder than anyone every before. He follows right after, tumbling away inside the right Olivia this time.

She lays curled against his chest, hair fanning down her back. Her body is warm and soft as she inhales and exhales. He is lying next to her, arms above his head, staring at the ceiling. He wishes to disappear. He wishes she could vanish with him. He wishes that somehow none of this could have ever happened and that he didn't hurt her, even if she won't admit it right now. He still hates himself. Nothing changes. In the darkness of the night he sees himself as a monster. She may not realize how much she hates him now, but she will, eventually. He doesn't know what he'll do next. Her words echo in his ears now. _if you're going to leave, then go now._ Would that option still remain in the morning or will she throw him out in fury? He blinks into the dark and he swears he sees the answer in front of him.

There is an elephant in the room. It is not pink or purple or fuzzy or soft. It is dark grey and large. In the perfect blasé of the night Peter can see it. Underneath its feet the boards have crumbled away. The walls are tumbling around it. It's eyes are large and guilt ridden and glassy. Wet. It stands perfect still, no intention to move from here. He realizes that the elephant will remain, at least for now. But as he blinks again he sees himself in place, the floors have crumbled and the walls have tumbled. It's raining outside and he sees Olivia near his feet. She looks up at him with big green eyes. And he stands there, arms stretched towards the crying sky. He's holding up the one thing that is keeping them both safe. He holds the roof.

And he realizes that for now, this would be easy than hearing the truth.

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